The Communion of Saints
Part Two
I now reflect on and pray for
Saints who I have personally known and whose lives have had a direct impact on my
own.
The two saints at the top of my list
are Max and Fern Tidwell, youth leaders at Albertville, Alabama First Methodist
Church in the 1960’s. Max and Fern
taught us to love God and God’s people.
They were never able to have children of their own and they loved those
of us in the youth group with all of the love that they had to give. That love has passed from them through all of
us and on to people in our lives.
Another Saint in my life is Winston Walker III. Winston was in this same youth group. He was
born almost exactly a year before I was and I have literally known him since my
birth. Winston was one of the kindest
and most caring people I have ever known.
He was thoughtful and even when he and I disagreed which we often did,
especially about politics, he never ever acted superior or put down another
person’s ideas or beliefs. I thought of
Winston this week because the Albertville High School Class of 1967 celebrated
their 45th Class Reunion and two members of that class, Cheree
Collins Carlton and Dee Walker, Winston’s brother, placed beautiful flowers on
our friend’s grave.
The final saint I want to talk about,
is Bennett Alford, Sr., my father, who died on October 8, 1985 of suicide. For years I could not sing the song with
which I began this post. It was
absolutely impossible because of the tears that flowed of their own accord from
my eyes.
Daddy was another one of God’s
beautiful and so very human saints. He
did so much for so many people in our small town and all over the world, even
though at times he was a troubled soul.
Daddy was the Scoutmaster of Troop 71 of the Boy Scouts of America and
in that role influenced hundreds of young men who became teachers and preachers
and doctors and lawyers and salesmen and pilots and engineers and filled so
many other professions in our country and the world. More important than the professions, however
is the kind of people we all became.
People who loved their families as well as the stranger; people who made
a difference in the lives of others in our world; I would go as far as to say,
people who have helped bring about the kingdom of God, on Earth as well as in
Heaven.
Daddy’s death was traumatic for all
of us, bringing up many more questions than answers and shrouding our world
with sadness. I want to share a part of my journey through this “Valley of the
Shadow of Death (Psalm 23).
First, I do not believe that suicide
is a sin. I believe that stress and
anxiety and mental illness cause death in many ways. Sometimes it is a heart attack, or stroke or
cancer. Other times it can be an
accident or suicide. In Daddy’s case it
turned out to be suicide. I believe that
in his In his depressed state, that the thought of living as long as his mother
(85 years) or his grandfather (96 years) was just more than he could
imagine. I also came to know that he did
not kill himself to hurt anyone or to get even with anyone, but that the joy
that had filled his life and evaporated and that he could never imagine that it
would return.
Secondly, I got into therapy for the
first (but not the last) time. In fact,
27 years later, I still see a therapist once a mounth, and more often if
needed. I am also open to
anti-depressants when necessary.
Neither My journey nor my family’s
journey are over nor will they ever be, but I want to close these reflections with
a story of how Daddy and I found resolution over his suicide. This story brings us back to “the Communion
of Saints.”
During the Summer of 1986, less than
a year after Daddy’s death I worked as a Chaplain at Philmont Scout Ranch in
Cimarron, New Mexico. Philmont is a High
Adventure Base serving Scouts and Explorers from All of the USA and the
world. The program is centered around
backpacking, Western History, archeology and activities. On a day off I was backpacking alone (yes, I know this is dangerous). I was at least on a well used trail where I
would be found if I did get hurt. But,
back to the story: hiking in this
beautiful country to which I first came with my father, he and I started a
conversation. Believing in the Communion
of Saints, I believe this can be done. We
‘screamed and hollered” at each other. I
told him how angry I was at him and how sad we all were that he was no longer
with us here. He told me that he was
fine and that he and I were fine and that he loved me.
I cannot explain this, but what I do
know is that this was one of the most real experiences of my life and has
changed me forever.
Today and every day, I give thanks
for my father and for all the saints, living and dead, with whom I am surrounded,
and I give thanks to God for “being knit together in the Communion of Saints,”
and for the gift that “for God’s people, that at our death, life is changed,
not ended.”
